


Pretty Hate Machine

by orphan_account



Category: Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Chaptered, Dark, F/M, Incest, POV Female Character, POV First Person, POV Third Person, Past Tense, Present Tense, Sibling Incest, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-04
Updated: 2005-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-09 07:13:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written as a series of fics, posted here as a chaptered fic.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Breaking Out

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a series of fics, posted here as a chaptered fic.

What do you say after that?

_That._

"We were just playing, we didn't mean to--" And you won't be able to finish that sentence, either, because when you do that, and are caught that is the end of the world, and the wind rattling the windowpanes is nothing but a persistent illusion, because there is no real outside world, and the fact that your nursemaid is looking at you still with that horror and disgust just means that this is hell, and she'll stare at you forever, and you know your life is over.

"You two are the most disgusting--!" Even she can't say it. "Just wait till I tell your uncle!"

And you start crying because you know it won't help to beg and you know that hell hasn't even begun yet. You're left alone in the room with your brother as the door slams closed and you hear the click of the lock. Your hand searches out his, and he twitches as if it hurt, but slowly he closes his hand around yours.

"Let's run away," you say, air barely passing through your constricted throat. "Let's go right now and never ever come back."

"It's a high window," he says. You find you can barely move your legs, and you know it's because you've already given up. You cry against his shoulder until you hear footsteps in the hall outside. You let go of his hand and sit straight-backed like an arrow. Step, step, step. Keys in a lock.

Your nursemaid doesn't look at you as she rushes in, she just sits on the floor and hugs each of you, tight. She's crying too. And then she whacks the both of you in the face, hard.

"Never do that again! Ever! That was BAD, do you understand? You've both been very bad!"

And then you never, ever do it again.

Until your uncle is blind and dying, and your nursemaid is long gone, and there is a voice in your ear that speaks the language of serpents; when you know that hell is in the hallway and this time, when the door opens, you'll see its face.

Then you do it again.

And you pick up a sword.

And you meet hell head on.


	2. Pretty Hate Machine

She bit hard into a salty muscled shoulder, even as the edges of the stone wall bit into her back. It was barely smoothed by velvet that would be torn and stretched when they were done. And he didn't care that he bruised her, and she didn't care that he yelped with pain when her teeth drew blood.

It wasn't at all like the spider-touch of clammy fingers on her skin, in the cyanide half-light of Gríma's chamber.

Black and blue were her thighs and her arms, high, where no rolling sleeve could reveal the marks. Inside the blood spilled, the veins burst. There were other veins, elsewhere inside her - strings of memories, holding her together. As her brother pounded into her body, the strings held, and grew thick and hard, and she felt like they would never break. She would be safe forever, safe in the hard, cold, snarling beast-body she had made for herself.

She walked pathways well worn by now. Even as she dug her fingernails into her brother's neck there was a part of her that knew.

When it was over they'd kiss in wet tenderness, spent and no longer biting. And that, more than anything else they'd done together, would feel like filth seeping into her soul, and each time she would tear away from him, and smooth her dress, and walk out of the room, or the hallway, or whichever hopefully secluded spot they had chosen for their tryst.

As she walked away she would feel his eyes on her and wouldn't be able to turn back because the look would undo her, Éomer watching her would unravel her. Each time, whether she looked back or not, she'd feel bitter - to have the beast-strength die so soon.

"You're mine," he had whispered in her ear once when she was catching her breath, her body still convulsing slightly. That had been like icy water on her neck.

"Yours? How am I yours?"

"Because I adore you, Éowyn. I love you."

She knew that wasn't a lie. He loved her, brother to sister, lover and friend. That's what she couldn't bear. That was like a spear pointed at her heart.

And night would fall. Whatever she did in the day, the shadows would grow longer and the horizon would glow bright and beautiful before the light died. And she would go into her rooms, resolved; and she would wash, and slip into her nightdress, and burrow under the covers of the same bed she'd slept in since she was fourteen.

She would lie awake, telling herself she would fall asleep, and not get up again till morning; she would not walk barefooted down the hall in the dark, would not take two turns to the right, or go behind the curtain to avoid the guards. She would not feel her way through the secret pathways, and she would not knock three times on a surprisingly simple wooden door, and she would not open it without answer and find Gríma waiting.

...And later as she lay listening to the tongue of serpents in the blackness, skin against cool skin, warm breath on her ear, the strings would burst and the lost days would spill and wash over her, and be gone. And he would press his face against her tears.

This was the face of despair.

And the taste of blood in her mouth. 


	3. Crow's Rest

I might tell you how it feels, says the pale maiden. I might tell you every detail. Would you love me then? Would you take me away from my mountaintop prison?

I might tell you my reasons, says the marked villain. I might talk of those I love and hate, who would rather I had never existed. Would you view me differently?

I might tell you things you would never believe, says the bright-haired prince. I might even find some way to explain to myself why I do not loath myself. What would you think?

Talk to me.

I do not feel at rest when I sit in my bower and embroider. I do not feel so when I groom and serve my king, my uncle - when I watch his once-strong arm tremble to hold up a pitcher. There is no rest for me in the hallways of Meduseld, where I wander the day. All the colours on hangings of old glory have faded and the battles reduced to nothing but catalogues of loss - meaningless and devoid of passion.

I do not feel at rest when Wormtongue watches me - he may be concealed in shadows, but his gaze is a familiar whisper on the back of my neck, and I look up, and even through the dark I see his eyes. I do not feel at rest when he talks to me, and oh, he does, so much - words of truth - truths that are terrible, but they call to me so, promising certainty which I cannot bring myself to reach for. I want this so badly, and yet something in me fights it. I cannot listen to him. Oh, but I long to.

The only time my mind is cool and sure and unfazed is when my blade cuts the air, and when it hits, and I feel it slice true and strong through my mark. When I duck and parry, strike - and either win or lose - I know who and what I am. I am a shieldmaiden, a warrior, and there is nothing before me beyond the next enemy.

And then I put down my sword and shield and leave the training field, and walk back into the cool dark hallways.

I feel at times as if nothing lives in these halls, and even I am only a pale ghost remembering days before her death, not even aware of when her life stumbled to an end. I feel as if only mind travels in these halls, imagining flesh, imagining breath.

And that is worse than unrest.

Things will change soon, I tell myself. Yet it amazes me when I see this actually happening, to see matters sliding towards my intentions. I am not so sure how the dice will fall when my plan reaches it's denouement, but all of this is better than I ever expected. I have wanted this for so long. I have dreamt of the end, of the fire, of the golden hall in rubble.

I wasn't bought by Saruman in the sense you might think. Oh no. I am not surprised you'd tack my motives simply to greed, dense as that assumption is. But why would I want treasure when I have every luxury of Edoras in my reach?

Éowyn?

Éowynnnn...

Saruman could not give her to me any more than any other man could make a gift or a possession out of her. Only she can give herself to me in the way that I want her.

Little changes are taking place. I can see it. I can taste it. And oh, it won't be long now, until her tears turn into laughter and her sighs will be full of joy. And she will know how warm it is, here in the dark, and she will be free.

The day is cloudy, and the shaft of light from the high window is pale as the moon. It lights half her face, and she stands tall and fair between shadow and light. Her mouth is a thin line and her head held up proudly, but I know my sister and I know the anger that has moved her to such stillness. She might topple, or break, like steel that is too fine - so pure it is brittle.

"What of it, Brother?" she says. "Speak. What is it that you wish to say to me?"

My hands fall to my sides, and my tongue is still. She hits my face, hard, and I stumble a step back.

"Éomer! Speak!" she commands. "It is enough you spy on my comings and goings! Will I not even have your opinion, if you've gone to the trouble of forming one? Come now! Tell me who I should pledge myself to, where I should sleep or how I should spend my nights? Come, tell me how to wear my dress - shall I wear it upside down for your pleasure now? Or shall I service you? What is your pleasure tonight, my lord?"

Who are you, sister? Who am I? How did we come to this?

The crow's talons scraped against the golden plating as it settled on the roof of the highest building of the town. The wind whipped at its feathers, and it crowed three times before taking flight again. In a little while, it would start raining.


	4. Equinox

It was a beautiful knife. The curve pleased the eye, and her fingers fit snugly into the handhold when she wrapped them around the dark brown leather of the handle. She thought of slender fingers, the tips wide and round, nails small and snug against the flesh - blue veins showing faintly under the translucent skin.

She brought the blade to her face, feeling the smooth cool metal. The leather even smelled like him, still.

It was the most beautiful knife she has ever seen.

"He ran. I guess the lads were just alarmed. He killed him and ran." Merry had looked steadily at her, frowning a little. Perhaps he had been trying to interpret her silence, her grimness.

Yes, that would seem odd to him, wouldn't it?

She had wanted to tell him. Perhaps she would, still, later.

She heard the door creak. She closed her eyes. This was her bedchamber, and she had not heard him move; it could only be her husband. Her hands fell into her lap, still clutching the sharp curving metal. "Éowyn...!"

"Do not fear for me, husband," she said quietly. "But please, leave me, if just for now."

She heard the rustle of cloth, and the door creak closed; Faramir was nothing if not respectful. She decided that she would talk to him later, make sure he knew all he needed to know.

Confusion, shadows, lies - they did not belong in her life anymore.

Clouds broke, somewhere outside, letting a tendril of sunlight in through the large windows of the chamber. It fell on her slippered feet. The light seemed grey and edgy to her eyes, so used now to the gloom, but it felt warm on her foot.

"I loved you," she whispered to the pattern of red droplets on the blade.


	5. Shades

_1\. Blackbird_

She needed it. That's what Lady Éowyn told herself, and the walls, and the air, when she imagined her husband's face there, hurt and sad. Always hurt and sad, and that cut her too. It made her anger flare like fire on oil, and she'd accuse the walls: you don't understand me, you think you do; you don't know. She wanted him to hurt, in those moments. But she'd never tell him, and her heart shrivelled at the thought that he might find out.

But oh, she needed it.

His name was Gálmód, and sometimes she blamed the name for her fall. Too many memories - her mind skipped the process of making a decision and instead her feet brought her to him, an impulse amounting a decision. He was no relation to the Gálmód whose heritage had once been claimed by a man with cool clever fingers and a voice that awoke tiny serpents in the pit of her belly. He was a strong-shouldered Rohan stablemaster, come to Gondor in the wake of the lord he served. He had calloused hands, and a pattern of round scars on his abdomen where he had been pitted with a pitchfork once. She sought out the bumps of his scars and the rough surfaces of his work-worn body with her fingers grown soft from luxury, and her mouth grown hungry from tasting only wine and kindness.

Hurt me, pound me, be strong, be unkind, she whispered to him. He wasn't. He took her as roughly as she wanted him to, with her knees and palms scratched and bleeding on rough stone or unpolished wooden walls, her fine hair yanked and pulled until her scalp bled; but he was kind, even so. Gálmód spoke little, but afterwards he'd kiss her, kiss her like a man, artless and wet, but kind, so kind it made her want to scream. Sometimes she'd cry. But it wasn't enough.

It would go away. This all would. It had before. She needed these things every now and then; she'd be all right and back to her old self, given time. So she told herself; and the months passed, rolled into each other, sore thighs and clumsy lies carving their marks into her.

  
_2\. Swan_

Faramir was away, and there would be no need to come up with excuses to hide her body, the bruises or the scrapes. She sat straight-backed and merry at the head of the feast table lined with guests and courtiers, prattling the night away. She stayed up late, though she had risen early, and asked the bard for song after song. The thought of her bedchamber terrified her.

Her dress was dark green. Sometimes she didn't notice it when Gálmód had made her bleed, so white was out of the question. And, as it was, she'd grown fond of darker colours.

As midnight closed in she saw her last guests to the door of the hall, and smiled and laughed until the door closed. Then she stood still, looking at the wood, the spiral and flower patterns running down the length of the tall door. The sound of it closing still rang in her ears, and the taste of sadness was back on her tongue.

She walked the white halls, her steps echoing, one two one two, inevitable like the ticking of a clock. She had had too much to drink again, and ghosts were stirring in the shadows.

She began to wish Gálmód was with her.

She'd called him Éomer, once, when he'd held her wrists in one large hand and ground her bare hips against the cold wall.

Always so many men. Always one who loved her so that it made the fire burn stronger, made her spirit roar like a coursing river; and always one who would render her so weak she felt she couldn't even lift a finger, let alone stop him from coaxing out whatever self he wanted of her.

As she threw her chamber's door closed and threw herself unwashed and fully clothed on her silken bed, Éowyn realised just how gracelessly drunk she was.

"I always liked the black birds best, you know, but I just can't tell anymore. I can't tell what colour they are on the inside," she murmured. Mad miserable whore princess, she thought, addressing the empty air. "If I cut them open there's only blood and bone and guts, you can't see the colour of what they truly are."

She raised herself on her elbows and stared into the shadows in the corner. "Do you know what I speak of, my love?" she said. And how easy it was, then, to say that word: love.

"There was never only one colour," the shadow answered, a mocking tone that made her heart leap.

He was there; she couldn't see him, but oh, she knew he was there, and his voice spoke as clear and loud as if he was standing next to her. She was too drunk to be afraid, and instead let out a small laugh. "I am mad!" she exclaimed.

"Nothing is one colour only, maiden," he hissed, and she thought it absurd, her maidenhood taken a hundred times already before the day he had died. "There is no madness either except that which we choose. We do what we choose to do - and see what we choose to see.

"I went back to being what I had been as a child, and that place, where I was a dog again with no pretensions of lordliness, is where I died. I could have chosen otherwise. That much was given to me. That much is given to you.

"We die as we choose to die. We live as we choose to live."

"I miss you," she choked.

She felt it then - a touch not like ice at all, but hot and penetrating, a warm surge across her breast, like five fingers pressing into her flesh through the cloth. She gasped, her inebriation gone, and opened her eyes wide to the darkness. The room was empty. He was gone.

"Why can't I be happy?" she asked, but it was a question thought by one Éowyn, spoken by another. As she spoke the words, she realised the question was no longer important.

She slept deeply, dreamless, fully clothed, and woke before dawn without having decided to do so. She drew the curtains and saw the sky stretching cloudless above the land.

A crazy joy filled her, unlike any she'd known since childhood. She was looking out across a boundless land, under a boundless sky, and she knew that she was free, and that she had always been.

  
_3\. Robin_

I will return, my Faramir. I am not mad, and I am not unhappy; I am under the sky, and above the ground, and with thee also.

Faramir set the note back down on the windowsill. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. She will come back, he told himself. He opened his eyes. She will come back.

The summer had turned to fall, and the crisp stream water bit into her skin; but she warmed by the fire and the still-hot sun, and there was wind on her face, and she could breathe. She laughed, only for the sake of laughing, and it didn't feel mad at all. She looked up at the amalgam of yellow and red and green shifting in the wind on the branches above her, the bright sky flickering beyond.

So many colours.


End file.
